Chapter 8 - THE PACIFIER IN THE OILCLOTH
I stared at the silver pacifier, the weight of my true identity finally settling over me in the damp, dark cellar.
Hannah Moretti-Rossi.
I wasn't just an heir. I was the living bridge between two warring empires. A child born of a forbidden love that had plunged the city into three decades of violence. My mother hadn't just saved my life; she had hidden the only key to permanent peace.
And Victor had tried to slaughter me in my crib to prevent it.
I wrapped the pacifier securely back in the oilcloth and shoved it into my apron pocket. I needed to get back to Luca.
I crept silently up the cellar stairs and slipped out into the rainy gardens, keeping to the deep shadows near the perimeter wall. The police were still swarming the front of the house, their radios crackling in the quiet night.
I reached the rusted iron fence, climbed over with agonizing slowness to protect my bruised ribs, and dropped onto the pavement of the alleyway.
I sprinted the two blocks back to the hidden sedan.
I yanked the back door open.
"Luca, I found it," I whispered frantically, climbing inside. "I found the proof."
But the backseat was empty.
My heart stopped completely. The blood roared in my ears.
Luca was gone.
"Luca!" I panicked, looking wildly around the dark, empty street. There was no sign of a struggle, no broken glass. The car was still idling quietly.
Then, a heavy, metallic tap sounded on the passenger side window.
I spun around, suppressing a scream.
Standing outside the car, leaning heavily against the passenger door, was Marco. He looked exhausted, his suit torn and soaked with rain, but he held a heavy tactical medical bag in his left hand.
I scrambled over the console and unlocked the door. Marco slid into the passenger seat, immediately tossing the medical bag into the back.
"Where is he?" I demanded, my voice shaking violently. "Where is Luca?"
"He's safe, Hannah," Marco grunted, catching his breath. "I moved him to a secondary secure location while you were gone. The cops are setting up roadblocks. This car is registered to the estate. We couldn't stay here."
"How did you find us?" I asked, completely bewildered.
"Luca put a tracker on your phone months ago," Marco admitted, looking slightly unapologetic. "He said you were too stubborn to follow security protocols. Turns out he was right."
I let out a sharp, breathless laugh, the overwhelming relief bringing tears to my eyes.
"Is he okay?" I asked, my voice cracking. "He lost so much blood, Marco."
Marco’s face tightened. "He’s barely hanging on. We need to get him to the safe house, and we need to get him there now. Drive."
He gave me an address on the South Side, far away from the affluent neighborhoods and the heavy police presence.
I threw the car into gear and sped through the rain-slicked streets, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles were white.
"What happened at the penthouse?" I asked, terrified of the answer. "Did Lorenzo..."
"Lorenzo is dead," Marco stated coldly, confirming my worst fear. "Victor shot him in the chest before we could breach the room completely. Victor escaped via the roof access during the firefight. He took Vanessa with him as a hostage."
I felt physically sick. My father—the man I had only just met, the man who had traded his empire for my life—was dead. And Vanessa, despite all her monstrous ambition, was now a pawn in a psychopath's endgame.
"Victor will kill her the second she's no longer useful," I whispered, staring blindly at the road ahead.
"He’ll kill us all if we don't end this tonight," Marco agreed grimly.
Twenty minutes later, we pulled up to an abandoned, heavily fortified warehouse in the industrial district. Marco unlocked a heavy steel garage door, and I drove the sedan inside.
The warehouse was dark, smelling of motor oil and damp concrete. In the center of the vast space, resting on a makeshift medical cot beneath a harsh halogen work light, was Luca.
He was pale, his skin possessing a sickly, translucent quality. An IV line was taped to his arm, delivering fluids from a bag hung on a nearby metal rack. A heavy pressure bandage was wrapped tightly around his stomach, but fresh blood was already seeping through the white gauze.
I threw the car in park, scrambled out, and ran to his side.
"Luca," I sobbed, dropping to my knees beside the cot, gently taking his cold, uninjured hand in mine.
His eyelids fluttered, struggling against the heavy darkness. He looked at me, a faint, weak smile touching his lips.
"You didn't run," Luca whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the halogen light.
"I told you," I cried softly, pressing his hand to my cheek, "we’re family now. I’m not leaving you."
"Did you find it?" he breathed, his eyes searching mine with a desperate urgency.
I nodded, reaching into my apron pocket and pulling out the oilcloth. I unwrapped it and held up the ornate silver pacifier in the harsh light.
Luca looked at the engraved name. Hannah Moretti-Rossi.
He closed his eyes, a profound, heavy sigh escaping his lips.
"You are the heir," Luca whispered, a tear slipping down his pale cheek. "My mother didn't just save you. She crowned you."
"I don't want a crown, Luca," I cried, squeezing his hand tightly. "I just want you to live. I want us to be okay."
Before Luca could answer, a loud, metallic crash echoed through the warehouse.
The heavy steel garage door I had just driven through violently shuddered, then buckled inward with a deafening screech of tearing metal.
A massive, armored SUV had just rammed the door off its tracks.
The SUV ground to a halt inside the warehouse, its headlights blindingly bright.
The doors flew open.
Victor Moretti stepped out, holding an assault rifle. He looked unhinged, his tailored suit ruined, his eyes burning with a frantic, cornered desperation.
And dragged out beside him, looking battered, terrified, and completely broken, was Vanessa Bellini.
Victor pressed the barrel of the assault rifle against the back of Vanessa’s head, using her as a human shield as he surveyed the room.
He saw Marco raising his weapon. He saw Luca bleeding on the cot. And he saw me kneeling beside him, holding the silver pacifier.
May you like
A slow, sick smile spread across Victor’s face.
"How touching," Victor sneered, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "A family reunion in a grease pit. Hand over the silver, Hannah. Or the bride dies first."
